Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.
Gently to hear, kindly to judge.
'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!
Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing.
What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.
I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.